


Witch-Born

by GayApril16



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birth, Childbirth, Curses, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Hopeful Ending, I May Write More, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Body Modification, This ended up having a plot sorta?, Why Did I Write This?, Witch Curses, Witches, graphic childbirth, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24452077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayApril16/pseuds/GayApril16
Summary: While on a hunt, Dean gets hit by a nasty curse and has to suffer the consequences, both physical and emotional.WARNINGS: Graphic depictions of childbirth, non-consensual body modification (temporary), MpregIf you don’t like, don’t read
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Original Child Character(s), Dean Winchester & Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	Witch-Born

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know why I wrote this, but enjoy I guess? It went longer than I initially thought it would.

Dean’s head cracked against the wall and stars winked in his vision. He hit the ground hard and rolled onto his back, gasping for breath. He’d dropped his gun, and he was pretty sure it had skittered into the near corner of the room.

“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” the witch crooned, suddenly standing over him. Dean swore and lunged for his gun, but magic slammed him against the floor. He was pinned.

The witch waved her hand and magic sharply flipped Dean onto his back, still unable to move. He couldn’t even speak, or else he’d be calling for Sam at the top of his lungs. 

This was bad.

“Pretty, pretty, thing,” the witch hummed, singsong. “Too bad you tried to kill me, that means you have to be punished.” The witch paused, looking down at Dean thoughtfully as Dean sent his best glare back at her. The witch’s face brightened. “Oh, I know! You’re so pretty—you’ll make the perfect producer!”

 _The perfect what?_ Dean thought, still desperately trying—and failing—to move. 

The witch crouched down next to Dean, ignoring his stink-eye. She seemed to consider him, then snapped her fingers.

The world went dark.

*****

“Dean . . . _Dean!”_

Dean groggily shifted, blinking in the dim light and trying to remember where—

Dean let out a long string of curses, none of them kind to the witch.

“She got the drop on me!” he growled as Sam pulled him to his feet. The witch’s body was limp on the floor, a small pool of blood beginning to form from the bullet wound in the back of her head.

“What did she _do_ to you?” Sam demanded. “I came in here as she completed a spell—and I wasn’t able to catch _any_ of it.”

“I dunno, Sam, she knocked me out,” Dean grumbled, patting himself down. “So far, I’m fine.”

Sam scoffed, his eyebrows raising. “You’re _cursed_ , Dean—I wouldn’t call that ‘fine’!” 

There was a growing sense of dread pooling in Dean’s stomach, but as he opened his mouth to reply he realized that hadn’t been the only thing going on with his stomach, because now he was vomiting.

Sam jumped back out of the blast zone, swearing. 

Dean had doubled over initially but sank to hands and knees as he continued to hurl, his stomach desperate to empty itself. He wasn’t how long it was before he was merely choking up stomach acid instead of the hamburger and fries he’d had for lunch. At some point Sam had moved behind him, gripping Dean’s shoulder to help ground him.

Finally Dean finished, gasping and gagging as Sam pressed his flannel into Dean’s hand to wipe his face off with. Somehow, Dean had managed to get only minimal amounts of vomit on himself, for which he was grateful. 

“We’re going back to the motel room, right now,” Sam said. This time, Dean didn’t argue.

*****

Dean groaned into his pillow as pain panged sharply in his midsection again. Thankfully, he hadn’t vomited again, but Sam had barely gotten them back to their motel room before blinding pain had torn through his midsection, tearing down between his legs. Sam had caught Dean as he slumped backwards, still conscious but unable to hold himself up.

Now he was on the bed, pressing his face into the wonderfully cool pillow as his stomach throbbed. Sam was researching frantically, searching through any and all sickness-causing spells he could find on his laptop. Thank goodness for technology.

Dean groaned as pain tore through him again, his abdomen contracting unpleasantly. Dean had never experienced a stomach bug quite like this before, and he certainly didn’t want to again. The pain seemed to come in waves. At first they had been relatively tame, more aching than hurting, and short, spaced far apart. But as time went on things picked up speed, and a mere half hour after the first one had hit Dean was doing everything he could to keep himself from writhing on the mattress with each one. They were much longer, and now there was maybe a minute between each wave of fire that tore through him with clawing fury. Dean had long since stopped trying to keep from crying out.

Sam threw a worried glance Dean’s way as one of the waves was easing up. Dean scowled at him, and Sam turned back to the computer with a sigh.

They knew their only way of ending this was finding a countercurse.

Dean rode out another couple of waves, each more painful, longer, and closer together than the last.

Then they stopped.

Dean froze. Anxiety filled his chest—it was as if he was at the top of a roller coaster, just waiting for the plunge. He screwed his hands into the blanket beneath him. Seconds ticked by, then a minute.

Then the plunge happened.

The pain returned with a startling intensity, burning and stabbing and blazing as Dean screamed. The waves were on top of each other now, providing no relief as each one swelled harder and harder. Dean was holding the blankets with a death grip, sweat streaming down his face to pool on the pillow.

Another wave rose to its crescendo, and Dean felt an additional sharp pain twinged through his back. He barely had time to register the new sensation before his entire body clenched. Every muscle seemed focused on his abdomen, forcing something downwards without end. Dean didn’t have a choice in the matter; his body was no longer obeying him, instead focused on a singular task. He clenched harder and harder, never pausing, never letting up, forcing something from his stomach down to his pelvis with surprising speed. Within seconds he felt himself _stretching_ , a tearing burn blazing between his legs.

“ _SAM!!!_ ” Dean screeched. At some point—he didn’t know when—Dean had rolled onto his back, his legs sprawled below him. His eyes were screwed shut, so he didn’t notice Sam standing beside him until he spoke.

“Dean, what is it?” Sam asked urgently. 

Dean heard him as if he were underwater, the pain and forcing the _thing_ downwards his entire focus. He wanted so badly to stop, to just take a break, but his body and the overwhelming pain wouldn’t let him. He continued forcing the thing downwards, only now his pants were beyond uncomfortably tight—it was blocking him.

“ _Pants—off—now!_ ” Dean screeched. Thankfully, Sam complied, stripping Dean of his jeans and boxers before sharply sucking in a breath.

Just in the nick of time. Dean had thought he was already as clenched as he could get, but he was so, _so_ wrong. Every muscle, every fiber of his entire _being_ pressed downwards with a tripled, _agonizing_ intensity. He was sure he was screaming but he couldn’t actually tell, overwhelmed with the sensation of forcing something inside him down and _out_. Distantly he heard Sam shouting to slow down, but Dean couldn’t stop. With one last cry his muscles surged, and then it was done. The pain was fading, and Dean sagged back against the mattress. Dean wanted to sleep, but his attention was caught by something else: a small, sharp wall.

Dean pushed himself up—and froze. Sam was holding a tiny, naked baby in his arms, it’s umbilical cord freshly cut and tied.

Sam looked up, seeming a bit dazed. “Congratulations, Dean. It’s a girl.”

The realization hit Dean like a punch to the face. He’d just given _birth_ —to a _child_. His _daughter_. 

He was a friggin’ _mother_.

“I _hate_ witches,” he muttered, but he couldn’t help but smile exhaustedly at his baby girl.

He _never_ wanted to do that again. 

Unfortunately, his body had other ideas.

His stomach had been throbbing since the baby had come out, but Dean hadn’t really noticed because of how tiny it was compared to the pain he’d just gone through. Without warning, the pain cranked back up to eleven and Dean screamed.

“ _Sa-am—_ ” he sputtered as another wave of pain—another _contraction_ tore through his abdomen. He was doing it _again_.

With all his might, his body bore down. This time Dean could recognize the baby dropping, and he struggled to breathe as contraction rolled off of contraction, never giving him the chance to pause. The baby was moving, and it wanted _out_. 

The pressure slid from his abdomen to his pelvis to his crotch, and then the baby was crowning. Dean was sure that he was being torn in half as he screamed through the pain, unable to stop pushing. Then the baby was out—a boy—and Dean got a few sweet moments of rest.

Then it happened again.

And again.

When the fifth baby crowned, Dean lost consciousness, and the curse’s hold on him became even more apparent as his body continued to push. Dean only woke up when the contractions for the sixth baby started, and then he was crying, screaming that he couldn’t do this anymore. Sam said that he was getting closer to finding the countercurse, somehow finding time to research in between delivering and cleaning all of Dean’s babies, who were swaddled in flannel and layed in a row on the second bed.

Dean wanted to stop. He wanted to rest, he wanted to sleep, he wanted to _stop pushing_. He was exhausted, and every muscle in his body was screaming in pain, way past being sore. But the babies kept coming from somewhere unknown, and the curse kept gripping his muscles and _forcing_ him to push without pause until they were out.

He’d screamed so much that his vocal chords had stopped working completely.

Dean blacked out for the deliveries of the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth babies. He woke up as the thirteenth baby crowned, screaming with a voice that no longer worked. His entire body was on fire, blinding agony that only cared about forcing the child in his gut _down_. 

After the fifteenth child, he stopped having that blessed break. Pain rose on top of pain, and Dean kept pushing out baby after baby through contractions that never ceased. He lost count of how many there were, unable to distinguish the pain of delivering one from the contractions that had already started on the next. 

_Finally_ , Sam found the countercurse—on a blog, of all places. They were lucky enough to have all of the ingredients, and Sam completed the ritual as fast as humanly possible.

After delivering the next baby, Dean’s body stilled. The pain faded and Dean was crying because he was finally _done_. Within minutes he let the sweet embrace of sleep take him.

*****

When Dean woke up, he felt completely normal. A quick check confirmed that all of the . . . _tools_ he’d obtained to deliver the babies were gone. He was back to normal.

Y’know, normal plus _thirty-seven_ newborn infants.

The choice was easy enough to make. Dean was a hunter, a profession in and of itself that made raising a child less than ideal, much less _thirty-seven_. One by one, they dropped off the babies at various hospitals and clinics throughout dozens of different towns. In a rare display of sentimentality, Dean named each and every one before handing them in. The hospitals were far enough apart that Dean felt safe enough to give them their last names, too: _Winchester_. The majority of his babies would probably be adopted and their name changed, but Dean’s family name would be in their file. He never wanted any of his children to join the hunting life, but if any of them did in the future, well, bloodlines are important to know when facing down thousands-of-years old monsters. 

Dean walked in the last baby—his oldest one, the beautiful little girl. For some reason he’d been dreading her drop-off the most, leaving hers for last—long after night had fallen. Dread settled in his stomach as he pulled open the front door with one hand, his daughter held tight against his chest. She’d cried when Dean had tried to put her down after bringing her out to the car, so Dean had kept holding her as Sam drove them from city to city, only setting her down to walk in one of her siblings. Now only she was left, and Dean wasn’t looking forward to having to leave her forever.

A receptionist was the only person to be seen in the clinic, and at first Dean had taken her for an elderly woman because her hair was so white. It didn’t take long for Dean to realize that she was actually quite young, in her late teens or early twenties, her hair seemingly naturally white-blonde and slung in a ponytail over her shoulder.

The receptionist looked up as Dean came in. Her gaze softened as she saw what was in Dean’s flannel-wrapped bundle, and she rose from her seat, apparently the only official currently available.

“She’s beautiful,” the receptionist said as Dean passed the precious bundle into her arms. The receptionist was half a head shorter than Dean, her slenderness making her look smaller than she really was. She bore the baby’s weight easily though, tucking her into the crook of her arm. “Does she have a name?”

“Mary,” Dean replied instantly. Out of all of the babies, her name had been the easiest to decide. “Mary Campbell Winchester.”

The receptionist paused, no expression betraying her emotion. Eventually she said softly, “Alright. I have to ask, her mother?” Dean just shook his head, leading the receptionist to the natural conclusion that Mary’s mother had died. Her face filled with sympathy.

That was all Dean needed to do. He should be leaving, but something was keeping him glued to where he was. The receptionist seemed to study him, then looked down at Mary. The baby was blissfully asleep, her tiny hands curled in fists by her mouth. She had a shock of dark hair that stuck up in every direction, but Dean somehow knew that her hair would grow out as golden as the sun.

The receptionist gently booped Mary’s nose, careful not to wake her, then stiffened, staring down at Dean’s child.

“Mary Campbell Winchester,” the receptionist mused, still as gentle as ever. She looked back up at Dean, smiling softly. “You’d be Dean Winchester, then?”

Dean stiffened, warning bells going off in his head. He reached for his gun, but the receptionist’s arm had shot out, firmly but somehow non-threateningly gripping Dean’s shoulder to stop him. Mary was carefully balanced in her other arm.

“My name’s Nation,” the receptionist said evenly as Dean stared at her. “I’m a white witch. I use magic to help and to heal—the good type of magic, of course. No harming of any creature required.”

“Why should I trust you?” Dean ground out, his heart pounding in his chest. A _witch_ was holding his child!

“Because you’re going to need my help,” Nation said simply. She let go of Dean’s shoulder, shifting her hold on Mary. “She’s the first one you delivered, right?”

Dean frowned. “How did you—”

Nation grimaced. “Unfortunately, I’ve seen this curse before, and it’s magic signature is very unique. Here.” Nation passed Mary back to Dean, and Dean took her reflexively, pressing a kiss to his baby’s forehead. Almost instantly he felt calmer. He tucked Mary against his chest.

Mentally, Dean ran the numbers. If Nation had wanted them dead, they’d already be so. The only option left was that she was playing an angle—or, Dean begrudgingly admitted, because she really was a white witch and just wanted to help.

Nation was still calmly watching them, a hint of a smile playing around the corner of her mouth. Dean studied her carefully, looking for any evidence of an ulterior motive, but he didn’t find any. Her posture was open and relaxed, her stance one of sincerity rather than the arrogant confidence liars wore. When Dean locked eyes with her, still searching, she didn’t look away—rather, she studied him right back, with steady brown eyes. There were minute flecks of silver intermingled with the brown, hard to see unless you were looking for it. The color screamed _magic_ , but the gaze exuded honesty and trust.

She was for real, Dean finally realized. Even though every rational thought in the back of his head screamed at him not to trust a witch—especially after what he’d just been through—but he couldn’t ignore his hunter’s instincts. The girl who stood in front of him was an ally, not a threat.

Dean still had one question, though. “Why do you care?”

“That's fair,” Nation said, tilting her head. For a long moment she chewed on her lip, seeming to gather her thoughts. “Well, for one, that’s a baby.” She somewhat redundantly gestured at Mary. “Call it a women’s instinct, if you want, but I’d like to make sure she’s okay—not that I don’t trust you to do well,” she said, placatingly holding up her hands. “Raising a witch is just a handful.”

Dean wasn’t sure what he was choking on but he definitely choked. “W— _what?_ ” What was she talking about?

“She’s the first-born of a curse, that means she’s got strong natural magic.” Nation spoke clearly and slowly but not condescendingly, giving Dean time to process. “Her magic will start to manifest when she’s a bit older—actually, think Harry Potter type stuff, y’know, things going haywire.”

Dean gaped silently, his mind spinning. Mary was a _witch_?

“She’s not bad, Dean. Her type of magic is beautiful and pure—not dark like the witches you hunt. She’s going to get to choose her path. She could become a white witch, she could become a dark witch, she may not even decide to do much with her power at all—but it all depends on how you raise her.” Nation brushed her knuckles across Mary’s cheek, quick and soft. A silver spark flew from the contact, and Nation’s eyebrows raised. “Wow. She’s seriously strong—how many babies did you have?” She looked up at Dean sideways, simply seeming curious.

Dean mumbled his response, his cheeks turning red. 

Nation tilted her head further. “Sorry?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Thirty-seven.”

Nation blanched. “I—oh, wow. That’s a lot.”

Dean was sure he could rival the shade of a tomato at that point, but Nation just craned her neck to look past him, out the clinic’s huge front windows.

“I think Sam fell asleep,” she said. Dean snorted at her tone—she’d sounded as if she were absently commenting on the weather—and Nation gave him a tilted grin that was almost mischievous as she tucked her hair behind her ear. It was then that Dean noticed her simple silver wedding band.

“You’re married!” The words slipped out in surprise, and Dean winced.

“And to a hunter, no less.” Nation’s eyes were sparkling. 

“You’re married to a _hunter_?!”

“A surprise, I know. But then, I did use to be one myself.”

“You—y’know what, I’m not gonna ask,” Dean decided. “Your husband’s okay with this?”

“As long as you and your brother keep your hands to yourselves, you’re good.” Nation smirked. “And besides, I’m planning on playing matchmaker.”

Dean sputtered indignantly, then looked down at the bundle in his arms. Mary was smiling in her sleep, and what the hour-old infant dreamt about to make her smile he didn’t know. Hopefully good things, whatever they were.

“So what do we do now?” Dean asked, looking back to the white witch that he probably shouldn't trust yet but already did. “I’m a _hunter_ , but that’s not a life in which to raise a child—”

Nation cut him off, raising a hand. “Okay, one, your daughter is a witch. However much you’d wish a normal life for her, that’s not going to happen. Your focus is going to be on giving her a good, _happy_ childhood. That means that you’re going to have to dial back on hunting—but not that you have to stop. That decision’s up to you. And three—wait. I’m on two.” 

Dean chuckled. Nation glared at him.

“ _Two_ , you’re gonna need a base. A place that’ll be just as much a home as a shelter from the supernatural outside.”

“Where are we gonna find something like that?” Dean carefully changed his hold on Mary, his arm starting to fall asleep. He wasn’t expecting Nation to have an immediate answer.

“Lebanon, Kansas.”

“Lebanon?”

“Yup.” Nation returned to her desk, seeming to gather her things. When she stepped away again she didn’t have much in the way of personal effects, just a few pictures and a jam jar full of candies. She glanced at Sam, still asleep in the Impala outside.

“This is gonna be interesting to explain,” she said brightly.

“Which part, the fact that you’re a witch, the fact that my child—which I gave birth to hours ago—is a witch, or the fact that you’re dropping your entire life to help a stranger who might’ve been trying to kill you under different circumstances?” Dean asked dryly. 

As Nation held the door for him—Mary being a bit more cumbersome than her jam jar—she stated simply, “Yes.”

Dean laughed. He laughed real and hard for the first time since he’d been cursed, having to actively try not to be too loud so as to not wake Mary. As it was, Sam started stirring in the Impala.

“So,” Dean said as he crossed the parking lot, his daughter in his arms and a hunter-turned-white witch that he was already starting to think of like a sister at his side. “What’s in Lebanon?”

Nation tossed her head, flipping her ponytail to rest against her back. It just made Dean laugh harder, and now Sam was fully awake in the Impala, watching the two approaching figures with alarm.

Nation looked up at Dean with a sideways glance, a smirk playing around her mouth. “You ever hear of the Men of Letters?”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m considering writing a continuation that explores Mary getting older and Dean helping her learn how to control/use her magic with Uncle Sam and Nation to help? Let me know in the comments if you’d like to read that or not. If I do I’ll make a new series for this.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
